The Twain
by droidgirl
Summary: Crowley has never been very good at explaining why he does the things he does.


**Then**

"So you refused to return his soul," the bookseller (1) asked. "And didn't for a second, think that he might have gotten upset about that minor detail."

"I was going to talk to him about it more." Crowley looked miserable, slouched over his single malt. "I had a whole explanation planned out. It was going to be my grand gesture of something."

"But?" his companion prodded, torn between amusement and pity.

"But. I got nervous and blurted out a whole lot of other nonsense instead." The demon groaned. "And now he hates me."

"Can't see why he wouldn't. But…don't fret. Give him time...I'm sure things will work out. Now. Tell me. How goes the running of the eternal pit of damnation?"

Crowley's scowl deepened.

Sipping on his own drink, the book shop owner, Mr. A. Ziraphale, couldn't help but grin.

* * *

**Now**

"Well Bobby, stay or go, what's it gonna be?" The reaper asked.

"Oh would you bloody sod off? Don't you have a badly tailored suit to get pressed or something?" a familiar voice asked.

Bobby's eyes widened, surprised more than afraid. It was a voice he knew well.

Out of the shadows, Crowley stepped out, hands behind his back in a stance of absolute nonchalance.

"I don't take orders from demons." The reaper sneered, looking Crowley up and down. "Even the self-proclaimed King of Hell as it were."

"Self-pro…oh bloody hell. Don't think I won't have a word with your big boss about this." Crowley sniffed impatiently. He unfolded his hands and revealed a talisman in his grasp. Before the irate Reaper could protest, Crowley had pressed the object into the being's chest, causing the spectre of death to disappear in a blinding flash.

"What's this?" Bobby asked, standing up. "What are you doing here? Come to take me to hell yourself?"

"Is that any way to greet an old friend?" Crowley asked, tucking the talisman into the recesses of his coat.

"Friend?" Bobby snorted. "You tried to steal my soul. I ain't never been a saint in my life, but I don't think I deserve to follow you down into…"

"Bugger. I forget what a bunch of drama queens you lot were," Crowley sighed. "Come on. Sour Puss won't be gone forever you know."

"Sour Puss?" Bobby squinted.

"The Reaper." Crowley said, as if trying to explain something to a very slow child. He held his hand out. "Are you coming? Or are we going to stand around wittering all day?"

"I'm not going with you any…" Bobby started.

"Damnation." Crowley rolled his eyes, striding forwards and grabbing a still-mainly surprised Bobby's hand.

* * *

Bobby was sitting by the lake.

It was a beautiful summer's day. Perfect to be exact. The air was warm, the breeze was sweet, and if he wasn't mistaken, the fish at the end of his line were starting to bite. In his hand, he held a cold beer.

"What the…" he started, leaping out of the deck chair. He looked at his companion who offered him a smug smile. Amidst the pastoral beauty of the scene, Crowley's dark suit looked decidedly out of place.

"Like it?" the demon asked.

"What are you playing at?" Bobby whirled around to stare at the lake suspiciously. Who knew what kind of horror lay under the placid surface.

"Playing? Why would I be playing?" Crowley mused, shrugging out of his coat.

"This doesn't look like hell." The former hunter muttered.

"Glad you noticed."

"Where am I? Heaven?" Bobby demanded. "This can't be heaven. You're here."

"Again, it appears your faculties have not been completely damaged in that awful dying situation you had going for you," Crowley's smirk grew, disentangling himself from his suit jacket.

"Will you stop being so cryptic and explain to me just what the hell is going on?" Bobby asked.

"You're right. You can't be in heaven. In case it hasn't escaped your notice, them winged bastards aren't too fond of you right now. You and your little crew of misfits." Crowley rolled up the sleeves of his black shirt. "Did you really think you had a slice of that pie in the sky?"

The hunter's mouth snapped shut as he considered the demon's words. Slowly, he sank back into the deck chair.

"Cheer up mate. Enjoy the beer." Crowley reached into the cooler between their chairs and drew a cold bottle out. Twisting the cap off, he sank back into his own chair with a satisfied sigh.

"If I'm not in heaven, then…"

"Do you want to go to hell?" Crowley asked, quirking an eyebrow at Bobby. "The weather's a lot worse, the fish don't bite and if you ask me, room service has really gone downhill lately. On account of the eternal suffering and all that. I mean, if I were you, I'd prefer to stay here by the lake, fishing for the rest of time, with a lovely cottage that comes with a hot tub."

Bobby turned around and saw indeed that immediately behind them, was a lovely little cabin.

"I…" Bobby said. Unable to think of anything to say, he finally lifted the beer in his hand and took a long swig. The drink was chilled to exactly the right temperature. "Why?"

"No reason." Crowley picked at a piece of lint on his shirt.

The hunter stared at him intently.

"What?" Crowley exploded. "Can't I just…do something nice?"

"You're the King of Hell." Bobby stated. "I don't think that's part of the job description."

"Unlike certain hunters, I happen to live a rich and varied life outside of the office." Crowley sniffed, drinking his own beer. He paused. "And I was never going to drag you to hell, in case you wanted to bring up that whole business with stealing your soul and whatnot again."

The dead man stared out at the lake. It truly was a stunning view.

"And…if it helps ease your mind…" Crowley started.

Bobby looked over at the demon.

"I've got my people looking out for your boys." The King of Hell said, meeting his companion's eyes at last. "They don't like it, but they're my soldiers, and they do what I tell them."

There were a hundred responses to that statement. Instead, Bobby sighed, sinking further back into his seat.

"Sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar." Crowley continued. "A lake is just a lake, a fish is just a fish and a beer is definitely just a beer."

"Well. Not much I can do about it I suppose," Bobby responded gruffly. "Don't suppose there's a working barbeque back there?"

The demon allowed a real smile to appear on his face as he watched the horizon, and said, "Aren't you just a demanding old sod."

"Maybe." Bobby sniffed. "You staying for dinner?"

"Only if you really want me to." Crowley responded. "Not quite keen on getting back to running hell just yet."

The hunter thought about suppressing his own answering smile, but realized there was no longer any reason to.

Footnotes:  
(1): Although the last time the angel/bookseller had actually _sold_ a book was in 2008, when he had "accidentally" procured a copy of Twilight, and felt the need to get his money back one way or another. While Aziraphale maintains that the book was nefariously inspired by those who resided downstairs, certain demons, who drop in uninvited every weekend for a tot of scotch, continue to insist that the whole franchise was a conspiracy dreamed up by those upstairs.


End file.
